Dessert
by malaga
Summary: Rusty pulled a job with Eliot while Danny was in jail. Eliot doesn't approve of Rusty's snacks. Pre-Leverage and pre-Ocean's. M/M, semi-explicit, don't like, don't read.


AN: I know I should be writing Torchwood fic, especially after I introduced what might, if you squint, be considered a plot. Sorry. Nothing belongs to me, semi-explicit m/m. My first vaguely porny fanfic, feel proud, send feedback, I'll be blushing in a corner somewhere for a few weeks after writing this.

Rusty didn't do violence. He also didn't do long cons without Danny, but here he was. Danny was in jail, he was working on the details of a job which used one of the heavy hitters of the hitting game, and to be honest, it made him feel itchy. Like he was wearing a cheap suit. Not, he amended internally, that he would know anything about that. He twitched the lapel of his perfectly fitted, alabaster jacket with a light herringbone pattern, changing the way it fell over his lilac and lavender striped shirt, and smirked slightly.

Once he was done preening, he turned his eyes back to the papers before him. He had building plans, guard schedules, information on anyone who was even remotely involved in the place, he just needed to fit it all together. He leaned back in the ridiculously comfortable leather chair and sighed, rolling his neck left and right to shake out the remaining aches from a night spent in this chair.

A door creaking gave Rusty the excuse he needed to turn around and get his attention away from the papers which seemed, after thirteen hours, to be taunting him mercilessly. A man who was possibly one of the most dangerous hitters in the world had walked in the door, toting grocery bags and scowling fiercely. Anyone else would have taken this as a sign to back away slowly. Instead, Rusty grinned at the diversion, and jumped up to steal grocery bags and root through them for the food he had requested.

"What the… Eliot, where's my stuff?"

"Your stuff?" Eliot turned to him, fire in his eyes. "Are you talking about the artificial, sugar and colouring filled, garbage you wanted me to get?"

"Yup." Rusty nodded, and rocked back on his heels impatiently, staring at the empty bag as though he expected Eliot to somehow pull out pockets of chocolate and sweets.

"No. Not only no, but hell no. That stuff will rot your teeth and brain, make you fat, and probably give you cancer or some such."

Rusty beamed, exposing healthy white teeth, and grabbed Eliot's hand, bringing it to his toned stomach. "Perfect teeth, no fat, now hand over the sugar."

Eliot pulled his hand out of Rusty's grasp, shaking his head stubbornly. "No way. You wait, I'll make you some real food. Plus, you never know, you might have cancer from the additives."

Rusty gave his most winsome pout, lowering his eyelashes and gazing up at Eliot. The mistake most amateurs made with a pout was to stick the lower lip out too far, making the whole thing seem ridiculous. Rusty, on the other hand, was a professional pouter, keeping it out just far enough to promise a sulk if what he was asking for wasn't handed over and exposing the slightest hint of bright pink and shiny inner lip, which made other promises if his whims were obeyed.

It truly was a masterful performance, Rusty reflected, something which had taken years of practice both in mirrors and at various people. It also would have been a lot more effective if Eliot had paid the least bit attention to him.

"Eliot!" He gave up the pout, finishing with a whine. "I need my food to work."

Eliot snorted loudly, pulling out something bright orange. For a moment, Rusty thought it could be one of his choices, before realising it was a vegetable of some kind. Capsicum maybe? He usually only saw vegetables when they were mixed with noodles and covered in soy sauce, or decorating pizzas.

"That stuff isn't food." He pulled a knife out from a drawer, and tested the edge on his thumb, grunting roughly, before pointing at the couch with it. "You go work, I'll make dinner."

Rusty nodded meekly, which should have been Eliot's first clue that he was up to something, and went to sit down.

He fiddled with the papers loudly, adding in a sigh for dramatic effect. The steady thump of knife hitting board didn't cease, and Eliot didn't turn his head at all. Perfect.

Rusty gazed around the room, quickly cataloguing it in the same manner he would case a joint. Creaky floorboards there and there, slight rise in floor levels between living room and bathroom, could catch you out, windows open a crack, two of which opened silently, and one of those went to the fire escape. Rusty's smile was positively devilish, and he stood up silently, moving one foot forward with the stealth of a cat.

"Don't even think about it." Eliot still hadn't turned around or ceased cutting, and Rusty folded back up quickly, sitting casually and looking at a file.

"What?" He looked up from it after a beat or two, blinking innocently at the other man. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Eliot barked out a laugh, pouring the vegetables into a pan Rusty had never seen before. Either Eliot had bought it on his little Martha Stewart rampage, or it had been left in the flat by the previous tenants. By which, Rusty meant the people who actually owned the place. He thought he'd send them an anonymous gift basket in a few weeks, maybe some fruit or a nice wine.

Experimentally, Rusty slid a bare foot along the wooden floor. No reaction. He pressed hard against the arms of the chair, rising slowly. As soon as the linen pants lost contact with leather, Eliot turn and glared at him. It was a fairly menacing glare, even with the fact that he was wiping his hands on a tea towel.

"Fine." Rusty crossed his arms and stared at Eliot's back, hoping to drill a hole straight through his abdomen. Or unnerve him, whatever.

He tapped his fingers on the coffee table, noting absently that it was particularly nice design.

"You keep doing that, you won't getting any dessert."

"That threat didn't even work for my mother." Rusty replied petulantly.

"If your eating habits are any indication, I'm fairly certain your mother wasn't much of a cook." Eliot replied wryly, dishing up something which smelt delicious, even to Rusty's unwillingly tempted nose.

He pushed the dish in front of Rusty, and pointed at it. "You eat all this, you get some of the dessert I'm making."

He handed over a fork and walked off, pulling his hair out of a ponytail as he went.

"Dessert better be good!" Rusty shouted, poking his food dubiously. There were far too many colours for his liking. As far as Rusty was concerned, if it didn't have chewy goodness inside, there was no reason to taste the rainbow.

He took a mouthful, making exaggerated expressions of horror and disgust. Then another. By the fifth forkful, he couldn't be bothered faking repulsion, and started to show his genuine enjoyment. "'M done."

Eliot beamed. "Strawberries with homemade chocolate mousse. White and dark."

This time, Rusty didn't even attempt to hide his sheer joy. With every mouthful, he made little whimpers of enjoyment that had Eliot shifting uneasily in his seat.

"You're eating it." Eliot snarled. "Not making love to it."

Rusty tried out his pout again, just to test it. "Jealous?" He inquired idly, pout morphing seamlessly into a smirk as Eliot didn't answer.

Rusty flowed from his chair, and knelt down between Eliot's legs gazing up at him with growing confidence now that he had the upper hand. He ran his hands up the inside of Eliot's jeans, enjoying the rough feel over hard muscle and the way Eliot spread involuntarily and wordlessly.

He leaned forward, unbuttoning jeans and pulling down plain white boxer shorts. He gave Eliot a few short strokes, enjoying his moan, before taking the other man in his mouth.

Rusty had never really had a gag reflex, something he took full advantage of one occasions such as this. Unfortunately, despite some serious practice, he still couldn't do without breathing, and pulled off, unable to resist giving one last swipe with his tongue to remove some of the saliva that clung to the head.

"I'm resisting the urge to make a pun about dessert right now." He murmured, and Eliot gave a slightly strained chuckle.

"Thanks. But do you mind?" He gestured vaguely at his lap.

Rather than answer, Rusty leant forward and swirled his tongue slowly while working the base with one hand. Once, twice, and Eliot tapped his head in clear warning.

Rusty glanced up, eyes a startling blue, and went deeper, which was the final straw for Eliot. He came, gasping and back arching up from the couch.

Rusty stood up, mouth shiny and suit and hair mussed, the very picture of debauchery.

"You want me to take care of that?" Eliot asked, Southern drawl heavier than usual, nodding toward the tenting visible even under Rusty's jacket.

Rusty bent down so their eyes were level, leaning his hands on the top of the chair as he captured a kiss that was slow and tasted like mousse.

He pulled back quickly, eyes gleaming. "Nope."

Eliot looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Well, not yet. In a minute." He rustled through the papers, which had been pushed aside in favour of dinner. "Look! He has a dog, who is pregnant, and this guy has a troublesome son at boarding school. Wednesday night, they have the same shift. There's our window!"

"Told you real food would help your brain." Eliot's tone was pure triumph, and Rusty considered reminding him that he had said nothing of the thought. Considering the likelihood of him getting laid tonight if he pointed out Eliot was wrong, Rusty decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

"Must be all the protein." He pulled Eliot to the bedroom, with it's comfy mattress and high thread count sheets. As he pulled off his jacket, his last thought was that he better get the owners of this place a hell of a fruit basket. And possibly hire them a maid service, if his hunch on how they'd spend from now until Wednesday was proved correct.


End file.
